This Year Will be Different
by Roxburry Black
Summary: Joan of Arc and France story. After stumbling across a clearing with a single gravestone Amanda, an American exchange student sees something inexplicable. Rather sad but worth the read?


I do not Own Hetalia

The tiny clearing, hidden away from the rest of the world and seemingly untouched held an ancient gravestone. The forest was alive and thrumming with energy, golden twilight filled the clearning casting a seemingly timeless spell over the area. It was so magical that Amanda didn't have the heart to ruin it. She had been exploring the French countryside when she had stumbled across this little jewel of space. Lifting her her camera she hesitated, this place was to perfect to be captured on a camera. Closing her eyes Amanda felt as if this place were timeless, magical, preserved by the gods for a purpose she knew not what.

She was about to leave when someone entered the clearing, on the other side. The man was a tall, good looking fellow with clear blue eyes and slight stubble on his chin. His suit was well tailored and he looked like a high end buisnessman. In his right hand he held a bouqet of red roses, in his other he held a small cross.

A magical man for a magical place.

When France entered the clearing he felt the familiar magic of the place overwhelm him. Beautiful, just like his Joan of Arc. He stood in front of the gravestone for several minutes, not moving and face like rock. Finally slowly he bent down and set the roses and cross onto the ground. As the tips of his fingers brushed the weatherbeaten stone he was overwhelmed with sadness. Dropping to his knees France bowed his head and let the tears drop slowly to the grass.

"Don't worry my dear country, God is on our side, we shall prevail." Joan shot France a grin from under her helm, "Do you fear the future Francis?"

France smiled at her, radiating love. "Not as long as it includes you my love." She readjusted her grip on the banner.

"Then let us join Britain in battle my dear."

France bit his lip, trying in vain to keep from sobbing but as each tear fell to the ground another memory flashed before his eyes. He slammed his fists into ground and shook with silent sobs. Why, oh why did England have to take one of the only things he truely loved? Why was this world so cruel?

Amanda watched the man sink to his knees and saw him fall apart. The man grabbed his hair and sobbed, fat tears rolled down his face as he cried. Shaking with sudden fear Amanda moved from behind her tree and moved next the sobbing man. Pulling off her jacket she hesitated before draping it around his shoulders. The man jerked upward to look her in the eyes. Amanda froze the second she looked into his blue eyes, so full of despair and misery, so full of memories and shining with the knowledge of many centuries. Still shaking she drew out her hankerchief and wiped his eyes. They closed, like flipping off a bright lamp. Unsure of what to do next she put her arm around his shoulder comfotingly, surprised when he leaned against her.

France leaned against the teenager who knelt next to him, still crying. She rubbed his back and cradled him soothingly, but not saying a word. The French nation wasn't exactly sure how to respond to the American' minsitration but it helped a little. It helped ease the pain and suffering of hundreds of years. He could tell the tiny person was American because he could practically see the face of America shining out of hers. Typical America, not understanding the situation but trying to help anyway, he thought, that was at least one side of most Americans. He stopped sobbing but tears leaked out of his eyes, slumping against her he soaked her shoulder but she didn't seem to notice. Suddenly overcome he close his eyes and nodded off to sleep.

"Still pining for me, after all these years Francis?" France snapped his eyes open at her voice and was shocked to find himself, not with an American but standing in front of his beautiful Joan.

"Joan?" He whispered, "is that you?" Joan of Arc was standing in front of him, a beautiful white dress billowing around her ankles and gentle smile gracing her lips.

"Yes, it's me." Like a child reaching out for his mother France held out his arms and began to cry again. The shorter person enveloped him in a hug and he cried into her shoulder.

"Oh Joan how I've missed you. Je' taime, Je' taime." Joan stroke his hair.

"You have to let me go Francis," she whispered and he drew back in shock.

"What? Non, I will not let you go again, I love you to much." HE said fiercely, "I will never let you go."

"Oh Francis," she chuckled, "I love you too but I cannot go forward if you are holding onto me. I want to go onward Francis, you must let me go." Dropping his head he mumbled, "I do not wish to let you go."

"I know Francis but you must, the longer you cling to me the longer I must stay in his place. If the young one, America, could let go of the Amelia person you must stop pining for me, give me permission."

France bite his lip, unsure, "But."

"Please Francis," she pleaded gripping his shirt and gazing into his eyes imploringly, "I am tiered, I wish to move on, let me go."

France closed his eyes and nodded, "Good bye Jeane, I love you. I will love you for eternity."

"Good bye France, I love you too." Joan's voice was fading and when France opened his eyes she was gone.

Amanda laid the frenchman down gently and covered him the best she could with her coat. The man's eyes continued to leak but he was now smiling. Giving a grin she stood up and backed out of the clearing.

France woke up to the sunlight streaming into the clearing. Groaning he sat up and felt the coat fall off. Casting his eyes about he found no one with him, the only evidence was the coat she had left behind. He smile gently and stood up, planting a kiss on the gravestone he too, left the clearing.

"Where is that blasted frog," snapped England several month later, "he's late again."

America gave an inane laugh, "he's probably hitting on a few chicks, relax Iggy, you're wound up to tight."

"Don't call me Iggy," seethed the European nation, "my name is."

"England," both nations turned to see France, standing at the door with a small smile on his face, "You look fabulous today." France was looking his usual gorgeous self in a Gucci suit. England's scowl faltered, normally France's advances had an undercoating of anger but not today.

"What do you want frog?" England huffed, crossing his arms and looking away.

"I simply need to borrow America for a moment, if you can spare him of course." England felt a small flare of jealousy but nodded for the American nation to move forward. Once the unsure looking American was in range France grabbed his arm and steered him out of the room.

"Um, France dude, are you okay," ventured America as France pulled him along the hallways of the meeting house.

"Oui Amerique, never better," said the Frenchmen breezily, he stopped and pushed America into another room. America stumbled and then stood upright, mightily confused.

"Tell me about Amelia," demanded France and America turned white.

"What?"

"Tell me about her, was she to you what Jeane was to me?" America looked confused for a moment but hitched his perfect smile back into place.

"Chill your jets francy pants, I going back to the meeting room." America clapped France on the shoulder and moved to leave but France had a deathgrip on his arm.

"Do not try to blind me with you fake smile Amerique, I know that it is not real, show yourself and answer my question." America saw the fierce glare of France and sighed. Running a hand through his hair his smile disappeared. In it's place was a sad and world weary face.

"You want to know about Amelia huh?" He gave a slightly hysterical laugh, "To answer your question she was to me what Joan was to you. I loved her so much," America ducked his head, "She was a real firecracker, she used to tell me, 'Smile Alfred, this world is full of to many unhappy people for you to be one of them.' Boy those were the days."

France nodded, encouraging him to go on, "There wasn't day that didn't go by I didn't think of her then one day, at her grave I saw her. She punched me in the nose and said. 'Let go Alfred, there's a place I need to be, stop whining around like a spoiled child. I'm gone and there isn't anything you can do about it'." France hummed and nodded, so America had managed to let go of his human much faster but France had never had an oppertunity to speak to Joan before that day.

"Thank you Amerique," he said, " you have been very helpful," as he turned to leave he turned back around, "In more ways than one." France left the room with a newfound spring in his step.

As France re entered to room every head turned to look at him, he was much to cheerful today to ignore. Throwing his arms around a certain british nation he whispered into his ear, "Come with me to lunch England." England turned bright red but protest as the French nation lead him out of the room.

A/N- Please forgive the misspelling, depressing fluff and such but I thought there ought to be more on Joan of Arc and France. Yes there is a little FrUk fluff near the end. Read and review please.


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